The Birds
by Der Traumer
Summary: -COMPLETE- In a small woodland town, a hunter is found dead. The only clue to his killer is a tiny feather clutched in his hand.
1. I

**A/N:** I have actually finished this piece, and I promise its entirety will eventually be posted on this site. I'm just choosing to post it in weekly installments, give the whole Charles Dickens thing a try. No sorry, I hate Dickens' work, too drawn out. I'm not that cruel. And I can probably be persuaded by loving reviews to post more than one installment at a time.

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural and its cast, as lovely as they are belong not to me and I make no profit from the publication of this work.

**Claimer:** Sparrow, Haaron, Parakeet, Rat, Randy, Judy, Daniel, and Patrick and all associated back stories are deeply beloved and mine.

**Credit where credit is due:** www(dot)native-languages(dot)org(slash)languages(dot)htm and Wikipedia. Because I do in fact believe in researching before I write.

**Warnings:** violence, language, mild innuendo

and I promise not to talk this much at the beginning of any other chapters.

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 1_

She was Dean's "type" to a T. That is, on the shorter side of average, with breasts that threatened to spill out of her red tank top, large dark eyes rimmed by thick lashes, pouty lips with just a glimmer of gloss, and hair that tumbled in chocolate waves to the shoulders of her cropped leather jacket. Her jeans didn't fit too snug, but had rips so far up her sun kissed legs that they were barely decent. Not to mention, leaning against the wall as she was, hands in her pockets, watching a game of pool, she had that look about her that said she was just as likely to break Dean's nose as sleep with him.

It wasn't that Sam didn't understand she was more interesting than the fluffy speckled feather that they'd bagged at the late hunter Gregory Landrick's hotel room, he just wished he'd made his brother sit on the other side of the table.

"Oh my God, Sam, do you see her?" Dean punctuated each word.

The desperate whine was funny the first time… Sam rolled his eyes. "The last," he had to pause to count on his fingers, "eight times, yes, now, please, can we focus here?"

Dean made a dismissive gesture and continued to stare over Sam's shoulder. "It's a feather, a very little fuzzy feather. It's uhm," he glanced at the miniature Ziploc bag, "brown and white." He reached for his beer without looking and missed, hand fisting on air. On his second try, he got the neck of the bottle.

"I know it's a brown and white feather, jackass, why was a dead man holding it?" Sam flipped through paperwork. "He had nail marks on his palm. He clutched that thing so tight he bled – "

"You don't think she came here with that guy, do you? I mean, really, a girl like that, there's just no way…"

"Dude!" Dean had already asked that once. Sam threw his hands up in exasperation, "Just like two seconds of your attention would be great."

"Alright, fine." Dean waved to get a waiter's attention before leaning his arms on the table and locking his eyes with Sam's. "Two seconds, go." He picked up a french fry, tossed it in his mouth, and grimaced because it was no longer hot.

Sam sighed and pushed a picture of Greg Landrick's hand, even in rigor, holding the feather in question. "What was so important about this feather?" Sam asked.

Dean ate another french fry, and his face scrunched up as he studied the picture. "'S'it a special feather? Rare bird? Something with powers?"

"There's some lore about magic feathers that let people fly..." Sam dropped his arms on either side of the baggy. "But they definitely don't look like this." He looked up at Dean, whose gaze was trying to work its way back to the girl at the pool tables. "We have to be missing something…"

"Not all together unlikely, Sammy, considering the dozen other hunters just in this bar on the same job we are." His eye candy must have taken a few steps out of prime ogling space, because Dean was craning his head to watch her. Sam was surprised his brother had noticed something besides the brunette when they'd come in. He opened his mouth to argue Dean's point, but the bartender ambled up to their table, pulling a note pad and pen out of his pocket.

"Sorry that took so long, gentlemen, we're a little understaffed tonight. What can I get you?"

"Another beer for me," Dean poked a finger at his two thirds empty bottle, "And Sam here needs a shot of something strong."

Sam held up a hand and shook his head. "No thanks."

The bar tender smiled. "Just the beer then." And walked away.

"We were first on the scene, remember? Bobby called us."

"Then doesn't that make this Bobby's case?"

Sam wanted to bang his head on the table. What little blood was usually dedicated to Dean's brain function must have decided to take a vacation south. Sam didn't remember the last time he had to repeat this much information about a job.

"Here's you beer." The bartender returned with the bottle and square paper napkin to put it on. "You sure there's nothing I can get you?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Sam forced a tight smile.

Dean barely let his brother get all the syllables out. "Hey, barkeep?"

"Yessir?"

"That pretty gal over there," he pointed past Sam, "She a regular?"

The bar tender quirked up an eyebrow. "You could say that, yeah."

"She with that guy?"

The question inspired a small grin. "A word of advice: I wouldn't bother."

Dean practically squawked. His mouth gaped a few times, and the bartender had returned to the bar by the time he managed to splutter, "The hell does that mean?"

"Get your ass back to work on this job."

Dean stood, beer in hand. "We can work when Bobby gets here. Sammy, you have got to relax."

Now he remembered Bobby would be joining them tomorrow. Sam heaved a sigh, dragged himself to his feet, and resigned himself to babysitting his brother.

Dean put a hand on the table just as the eight ball rattled into a corner pocket. The cue bounced off the rail, narrowly missing the pocket and almost pinching the tips of Dean's fingers. "Nice shot."

"That you almost effed up, thanks." The shooter, the man whose relation with Dean's eye candy Dean had been mulling over all evening, stood up, and replaced his stick on the wall. He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, "I believe that's fifty even, Randy."

Randy pulled out a wad of bills and counted three. "I can't believe I let you con me out of another fifty bucks, Rat."

Rat shrugged and took the offered money. "Dunno what to tell you, man. Grand delusions that one day you'll be beat me maybe?" He grinned.

Randy shook his head. "May-be. I'ma turn in for th'evenin'. Wife's already gonna kill me for losin' more cash to you, better not be home late, too."

Rat laughed. "Take care, Randy. Tell Judy I say hi, and if she ever wants to trade cheesecakes for the money you've been losin', I'm all for it."

Dean had both hands on the table now; his eyebrows were knotted up, and he chewed the inside of his cheek, sizing up his competition. Randy was a middle aged man whose hair was just beginning to gray and had a bit of a beer gut. Schmuk: no skills required to cream at pool. Rat, though, he rested one hip on the table like he owned the thing. He was Dean's age, maybe a year younger, scrawny, and wearing a size too big t-shirt. Maybe not so scrawny. Closer inspection of his arms revealed lines of wiry muscle. Not a schmuk, but Dean could take him.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Rat asked, noticing Dean, still staring.

"Yeah," Dean took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and placed it on the felt. "Let's play for the cash you just ripped off the geezer, plus a little." Sam winced. He wanted to cover his eyes and shake his head.

Rat pushed his bangs out of his face, the gesture revealing a patch over his right eye, the ends of a jagged scar poking past its top and bottom, and studied the bill on the table. He whistled. "That's not chunk change, boys, hold on." On his way to fetch his cue stick again, he asked, "Hey, Sparrow, think I could borrow – "

"Aw, come on, man, you're not really gonna bum money off the lady, are you?"

It was the first time she'd actually looked at Dean, and it made him swallow hard and want to take a step back. She reached inside her coat and removed two neatly folded bills, but instead of handing them to Rat, she slid up to the table, unfolded them slowly, and placed them beside Dean's. "Why don't we play doubles all the way around?" she purred, shaking a lock of hair from her face, and meeting Dean's wide eyed gaze from under those too-thick lashes. "Me and Rat against you and your boy toy," she nodded toward Sam, who was very intently studying the collection of old school dream catchers on the opposite wall. He inwardly groaned.

"Now, that seems hardly fair…"

"You saying I can't play pool cuz I'm a girl? Or Rat can't cuz he's only got one eye?"

Dean's mouth audibly clicked shut.

"Double or nothing, sir," she repeated.

Dean's second hundred came in a crumpled stack of twenties and fives. "Sure, let's go. Sammy, grab me a stick will ya?"

"If you _really_ still think she's gonna sleep with you," Sam mumbled in Dean's ear as he handed him a cue stick, "You should probably tell her I'm not your 'boy toy'."

"Just relax, Sam, some girls are into that."

Sam blanched. "That's gross."

Across the table, Sparrow cleared her throat. Rat lifted the triangle with the pads of his fingers, nimbly shifted it into just one hand, and slid it into its slot in the table. Dean glanced at the perfectly aligned rows of stripes and solids, eight ball in the center. He made a sweeping gesture over the pyramid, "Ladies first."

Sparrow smirked. "No, that's okay. I've gotta fetch my stick, anyway. You boys can break. Rat, you've got the first shot when they mess up." She flashed one more taunting look at Dean before walking, all curves and swaying hips, through a swinging door with "EMPLOYEES ONLY" printed on it in purple.

This time, Sam groaned aloud. Feathers long past ruffled, Dean didn't catch any of the last three minutes' implications. He gritted his teeth, hunkered over the table, and shot the most god awful break of his entire life.

Sparrow's pool cue was custom made, had to be, with a totem pole of animals climbing its just shorter than standard length and engraved silver washers between the top and bottom joints. But even if she hadn't been so obviously a pool shark and Rat less obviously one as well, he and Dean still would have been doomed. Dean was too flustered to make bank shots, and Sam was so rusty he missed a straight shot.

"Eight ball, side pocket." It was the harder of two potential shots. Sparrow tapped the tip of her cue next to the intended pocket.

Dean's ego was so wounded the damage carried through to his libido. He couldn't decide if he wanted to bend the girl over the table or throttle her.

She sunk it, easy, the cue ball smacking into the back rail before rolling to a stop. Sparrow smiled, all teeth at Dean, who grudgingly handed over the money. "I'd say good game, boys, but," she sort of glanced at the three remaining solids on the table as she stuffed half the bills in her coat pocket and handed the other half to Rat, "uhm… not so much."

Dean forced a tight lipped smile in return. "No, not so much."

Long certain of the game's result, the loss no longer bothered Sam. "Hey," he leaned on his cue stick and studied a photo of two girls holding pool cues with their arms around each other on the wall. "Is this you?" He looked over his shoulder at Sparrow.

She finished unscrewing the joints of her cue stick and returning them to their box before answering. "Yeah."

"Who's the other girl? Clearly not your current partner."

"My sister. We _owned_ these tables."

"Where's she now?"

When Sparrow didn't immediately answer, Sam turned around. He opened his mouth to repeat the question.

"She died," Sparrow finally bit out. "Hey, Haaron," she shouted to the bar tender, "Get these poor losers a couple'a beers, on the house." She disappeared through that "EMPLOYEES ONLY" door again.

"Told you not to bother," Haaron chuckled, handing Dean his beer. "How much she get off you?"

Dean mumbled, "Two hundred," face a little red, and glared at his toes.

"Hey, don't take this the wrong way," Sam took his beer with more grace than Dean, "but what's with your names? Heron? Sparrow? Rat?"

Haaron was neither startled nor seemed to mind the question. "'S what you get when your dad's three quarters Lakota Sioux, I guess." His golden eyes twinkled and his tone was full of mirth, the answer one he'd rattled off a hundred times and knew most certainly wasn't true.

"So you're all siblings?" Dean asked hopefully.

Haaron laughed. "'Cept Rat here. And his name's not even Rat, it's Foster, right?"

Rat hung his head and nodded.

"Rat just… suits him better."

Dean went back to glowering.

"Huhmm." Sam nodded and took a drink. "This is a pretty neat place you got. All this stuff authentic?"

"You bet. Passed down half a dozen generations 'till it got to Dad, then to Sparrow. And Sparrow being Sparrow wouldn't give it up to a museum, so she and Keet – "

"Keet?" Sam interrupted. "Lemme guess, as in Parakeet?"

Haaron shrugged and smiled. "So maybe Mom had a funny sense of humor, too. Anyway, Sparrow and Keet bought this place. Dunno if it's what Mom and Dad hoped for the family heirlooms, but it works."

"Your parents ever seen it?"

"I'm afraid they passed on before they could."

"Oh… I'm sorry." Sam dropped into a booth. "If you don't mind me asking, how long ago did Parakeet die?"

"Do you always interrogate bar tenders when they give you free drinks?" Rat sat across from him.

"Uhm, no… I guess not," Sam stammered, "Sor – "

"Haaron, there's a girl at the bar trying to get your attention." He waved the other man away before explaining to Sam in no uncertain terms, "Look, leave Sparrow and her brother the hell alone. Keet died a week ago. Car accident. Not that it's any of your business, so drop it, asshole."

Dean smacked a hand on the table. "I don't think anybody here but me gets to call Sammy names." He stared down at Rat with lazy menace.

"Then tell _Sammy_ to keep his nose out of mourning girls' problems." Rat hauled himself to his feet, intentionally invading Dean's personal space as he did so. Dean drew back an arm, intent on hitting him, but Sam caught his elbow.

"Come on, let's go back to the hotel. I need to talk to you."

Dean continued to glare after Rat, who watched him with equal distaste from the bar.

"Dean, come on. We're leaving."


	2. II

_Previously: Sam drags Dean from Sparrow's bar before he can get in a fight with Rat.  
_

**

* * *

The Birds**_  
installment 2_

"This better be good, Sam, because I swear to God, I was gonna punch that sonuvabitch's lights out!" The drive from the bar to the hotel hadn't been long enough to cool Dean's temper. He smacked a fist into his palm and proceeded to stomp back and forth across the room.

Sam smirked, "Why? Because a guy with one eye can get a girl you can't?" He flipped open his laptop, noticed the flickering low battery icon in the corner of the screen, and dug out the cord to plug it in. "Or because he kicked your ass at pool?"

"No!" Dean immediately denied. "For messin' with my little brother."

Sam snorted. "Okay." He let Dean continue to fume while he searched the web.

"Here we go." He scooted the screen so Dean could look over his shoulder. "When we showed up, we knew Landrick was dead, and a lot of people had disappeared from this town including a hunter about three years ago."

Dean nodded. "And now we got Sparrow's dead sister."

Sam made an uncertain noise. "That's the thing…" Sam expanded a few windows with newspaper clippings about the disappearances, "Thirteen people have gone missing in the last seven years, all men, none local, and none of them younger than thirty. I was thinking we had some kind of cursed Native American artifact, with all that stuff on the bar walls, but cursed objects don't suddenly decide to start killing young girls when they've been killing middle aged guys for years. She doesn't fit…"

"So? Rat said she died in a car accident, didn't he? Maybe she doesn't have anything to do with Landrick's death."

Sam frowned and opened more web browser windows.

"You think Rat lied?"

"Had to." He turned the computer all the way toward Dean, "Check this article out. There haven't been any automobile related fatalities in this area in ten years." Dean had read maybe a paragraph, and then computer screen went black. "The hell? It's plugged in!" Sam ducked under the desk to look at the outlet and saw one frayed end of his cable dangling from the wall, the other lying on the floor.

"Holy shit! What the hell is that?" Dean jerked one foot off the floor, then hopped onto the other.

Sam almost cracked his skull trying to get out from under the desk in time to see the sinewy black and white rodent scamper across the carpet, around the leg of one of the beds, and past the bathroom door, Dean stomping after it. The furry spectacled face glanced back just once before the creature wriggled under the door. Dean flung it open to check the hall, but the little monster was nowhere to be seen.

"Sam," Dean closed the door more gently than he had opened it, "Why _the fuck_ was there a weasel in our hotel room?"

Sam blinked twice. "It wasn't a weasel… it was a black footed ferret."

"The hell do I care? Weasel, ferret, guinea pig, I'm so not okay with rodents runnin' around where I'm sleeping."

"Dean…"

"What, Sam? I mean, really, could you at least pretend you're pissed that this hotel has – "

"That ferret was missing an eye."

Dean froze in mid tirade. "What're you sayin'?

"I dunno yet… Get me the other power cord from my bag, will ya?"

"Uh, Sam…" Dean held up the requested object. It looked like a demented Christmas bow. The twist tie Sam had employed to keep the cord from tangling into knots now held together a dozen three inch, chewed through wires. Sam's mouth gaped. Dean tossed the destroyed cable into the garbage bin and sat on the bed nearest his brother. He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's all good. We don't need th'internet. What all you know about cursed objects, boy wonder?"

Sam dropped his head in his hands and tangled his fingers in his hair. "That one artifact doesn't slit a guy's throat, make another thirteen disappear, or randomly change it's m.o. to girls…" he groaned.

"More than one?" Dean offered, "Different curse for a different artifact? You said it yourself, she's got a ton."

Sam turned his head without lifting it out of his palm. "And one of those curses is attack by one eyed ferrets?" His voice dripped sarcasm.

"Eh… true that." Dean leaned back on his hands and stared at the ceiling. "That guy Rat told you to mind your own business about that girl Parakeet's death, right?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. "In a few more words than that, yeah."

"Well, that was clearly because he was lyin' about it."

"Sure looks that way."

"And a rodent that suspiciously resembles him just invaded our room and wrecked your computer so we can't check it out." He cocked his head at Sam, "You tryin' to get me to say shapeshifter so you don't have to?"

"I'd kinda thought about it… I mean it's not like there's no stories about them. They're all over cultures worldwide, the Nhang and Shahapet in Armenia, the kitsune in Japan, the huli jing in China, the aswang in the Phillipines, but those are mostly snakes and foxes, and besides we've _never_ seen one before, and other than werewolves and skin-walkers, there's _nothing_ about shapeshifters in Dad's journal."

"Alright then… it's probably not a shapeshifter, just an ugly critter someone sent to bother us. Either way, I think we need to have a chat with Mr. Rat."

Someone knocked on the door.

"You boys sure picked a weird ass motel… There's about ten guys at the front desk complaining to that poor schmuk Randy, who by the way is eating a raw leg of deer, about a weasel problem."

Sam held up his munched computer charger. "Yep, Bobby, we need to talk to you about that."

"Oh, Jesus…"


	3. III

_Previously: A one-eyed ferret breaks into Sam and Dean's hotel room and destroys Sam's computer cables.  
_

**

* * *

The Birds**_  
installment 3_

"How bad's the toe squashin' been around here?" Bobby asked absently while Sam searched his much slower laptop for information.

"Considering nobody knows anything," Dean shrugged, "Not so bad. Kinda tense, I s'pose."

"You've been here twenty-four hours and you have nothing?"

"We don't have 'nothing'," Sam arched in the chair and looked at Dean and Bobby upside down, "We have lots of things: missing people, one missing hunter, one dead hunter, one dead girl, a tiny feather, a one-eyed ferret with a motive, and a bar full of Native American artifacts… all seemingly unrelated to each other." He glanced back at the computer, "Finally!" and began to scribble furiously on the hotel notepad.

Bobby and Dean waited silently for Sam to finish. The resulting sketch was a crude timeline, marking the approximate dates of the disappearances and deaths. "Five people went missing before the hunter, a Jacob Rollands, disappeared. Figures he was looking for the cause of the missing people and it got him, because another seven people went missing after that, then Greg Landrick, presumably after the same thing Rollands was, was killed in the same week as Sparrow's sister."

"Commonalities between victims, excluding the girl?" Bobby asked.

"Male, ages varying from thirty-one to," Sam sifted through open web windows, "sixty-seven. Different home towns, some with families, some without, a few with criminal records, nothing major, though. Stayed at a variety of hotels." He shook his head. "Like I said, lots of unrelated information."

"Alright… all the other victims have disappeared, why not Greg?"

"Easy, we showed up too soon. Hell, the guy was still warm when we found him. No time to dump the body," Dean volunteered

"And there was nothing off about the room?"

"Except that stupid feather in his hand, no."

"Can we go back, take a second look?"

Sam shook his head. "We could. His room's just down the hall, but the cleaning crew was there early this morning."

"Dammit." Bobby rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. "This kid Rat? You say he's been doing a pretty good job screwing with your progress?"

"Yup. Maybe the cause of the all the destroyed computer equipment, and definitely withholding information about Sparrow's dead sister."

Someone pounded on the door. "Bobby! Bobby! I need ta'talk with you! I think I found something!"

Dean raised one eyebrow. Bobby just stood to answer the door. The kid in the threshold had his arm up, ready to start beating on the door again. In his other hand was a crinkled piece of paper.

"Bobby?" Sam asked, clearly amused, "I thought you preferred to work alone."

"I do, this is Daniel Landrick, Greg's son."

"Oh… I, uhm, I'm sorry."

Daniel ignored him and handed the paper to Bobby.

"I found it in the bible in the desk. Dad always leaves his notes on the same page as Revelations 2:2, in case… in case something…" Bobby clasped the boy's shoulder and tugged him into the room.

"It's gonna be okay, son. We're gonna find the thing that did this." Bobby passed the notes to Sam. "This is Sam and Dean Winchester. Their father was the best hunter in the business, and I wouldn't trust anyone else more with this case."

His jaw clenched, and he was blinking furiously to hold in tears, but Daniel managed an acknowledging nod.

"So what'd he leave us, Sammy?" Dean scooted over on the bed to watch over his brother's shoulder.

"A couple've addresses, one of them's the bar, the other's…" A few more keystrokes, and Sam sat back, "the other two, one's Sparrow and her siblings', the other's Rat's. His real name was Foster, right?"

Dean nodded. "Confirming suspicions we already had."

"Yeah."

"So, tomorrow, you boys go talk to that poor girl about her sister, and that Rat kid. I'll talk to the hunters milling around here, see what I can get. I knew Greg pretty well, but I wanna see if someone knew him better, or maybe knows somethin' we don't about this place."

"As good a plan as any," Sam shut the laptop.

"All right, Dan, go get some shut eye. We'll get back to work in the morning," he patted the boy on the back and nudged him out. When Bobby went to follow, Dean stopped him.

"Hold on, Bobby."

Bobby closed the door, waiting for the inevitable.

"That kid even outta high school?" Dean demanded.

"He's no younger than you and Sam were…"

"Yeah, when we were hunting with Dad. Hunters, Bobby, experienced hunters have died on this case, – "

"I know!" Bobby snapped. "But how the hell was I supposed to tell him not to come? Huh? Would you have sat around and waited for someone else to deal with it if it was your father?"

Dean made a wordless angry noise.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Bobby admitted. "You boys, just keep workin' this job like he's not here."

"Bobby," Dean warned.

"Like he's not here," Bobby repeated.


	4. IV

_Previously: Daniel Landrick, Greg's sixteen year old son, provides Sam and Dean with the limited notes his father left behind.  
_

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 4_

Sparrow leaned on the door post, wearing a silk robe which she had tied shut to cover her shorts and camisole when she saw Sam and Dean on the front steps. She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed the brothers with disbelief before they even started speaking.

"Hi," Sam began, "We're from the car insurance – "

"Do you always play pool with your clients?" Sparrow quirked up an eyebrow.

Dean coughed. "Uhm… well, no, that was a bit of a breach of protocol, but, you see, we didn't know - "

"Parakeet didn't have car insurance. She wasn't the driver."

Sam and Dean blanched. "Uhm… life insurance company?" Dean tried, flashing the most charming smile he could muster.

Sparrow's other eyebrow arched to join the first. She shook her hair out of her face, before stating casually, "Parakeet was twenty-one. You really think she had life insurance? Furthermore, do you think I've not heard that one before?"

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. Sam shrugged. Dean finally asked, "Can we come in?"

"No. You can get the hell off my porch, that's what you can do. I, nor anybody else around here know anything about that sonuvabitch Landrick. And I'd appreciate you not using my baby sister's death as a means of interrogating me about it."

"That's a kinda angry way to talk about a dead guy you don't know anything about," Dean noted aloud, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Get the hell off my property before I fetch my shot gun."

Sam took hold of Dean's elbow and started down the stairs, but Dean wouldn't budge. "I'm sorry," he locked eyes with Sparrow, "about your sister's death, and especially sorry if some loser came by before us bothering you about it for the sake of Landrick. We're interested in what happened to your sister, the hell with Landrick." Dean knew how to sweet talk a lady, and though Sparrow was outwardly tougher than most, a sincere apology seemed just the right way through that exterior.

Sparrow sighed and tossed her head because her hair had fallen in her eyes again. "It was a car accident."

"Anything suspicious?"

"Are drunk drivers suspicious?"

Dean frowned when he realized Sparrow really wasn't going to give up that a car crash had not killed her sister. "Okay, don't like yell at me or anything for this next one, but I gotta ask it." From past experience, sheepish grins got him just as far as straight apologies. "Any small animals around, rodents maybe?"

Sparrow laughed dryly and shook her head. "The hell should I know? I wasn't there."

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Any problems with rodents around here?" He gestured the house.

Sparrow smirked and rolled her eyes. "No." She stepped back inside. "You boys aren't as dumb as you look. I'll give you that," she started to close the door. "But you're sticking your noses where they don't belong. I suggest you and all your hunter friends just get the hell outta this town, 'kay? Wouldn't want to see anything happen to those pretty faces of yours." The dead bolt tumbled into place.

Dean gaped.

"I think she knew we were hunters the whole time," Sam managed, more than a little startled. "That whole routine, it was just to string us along, make us squirm…" He stared dumbstruck at the door. "What the hell is going on in this town, Dean?"

Sam was pretty sure Dean was going to snarl an 'I don't know', but instead his jaw fell slack, and he pointed to the porch space behind Sam. Sam slowly turned around.

If it stretched its neck, the bird could have bit Sam's ear. It was all white with yellow eyes, and with the exception of fluffing its feathers back into place upon landing, it was statuesque, just watching Sam and Dean with its head cocked.

"I… I think it's a great white heron," Sam whispered, "and I don't know what it's doing here, because those are Florida birds…"

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Sam, how the hell do you know that?"

Sam didn't get to answer, because the heron took one long, slow stride forward. He and Dean hopped back. The bird cocked its head to the other side, took another step forward, and watched Sam and Dean take one more back.

"Sam… I don't care where it's from… I don't think it wants us here."

Sam swallowed. "Agreed, let's go." They scrambled down the steps.


	5. V

_Previously: After questioning Sparrow, Sam and Dean are attacked by a great white heron.  
_

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 5_

"God, I am so done with the wildlife around here!" Dean snarled, shoving his hands through his hair.

Sam put his hands in his coat pockets "You wanna know something weird?" He kicked at a rock. "Sparrow's brother's name was Haaron, spelled all wrong, but still essentially Heron."

"What're you sayin', Sammy? You back on shapeshifters?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm saying we have a one-eyed kid named Rat and a one-eyed ferret. A kid named Haaron, and a Florida bird in the middle of Washington state." He half grinned.

"Aw, Sammy, you are trippin', man. Maybe," Dean looked pointedly at his brother, "maybe, someone is screwin' with the animals, but – "

"Dean, whose car is that?"

A rusted, green pick up was trying to pull past the Impala, and doing a God-awful job of it, because it was about to clip the passenger side headlight.

"Oh, hell no…" Dean took off down the twisting driveway at a sprint, waving his arms to get the driver's attention, Sam jogging behind him. "Stop! Stop! StopstopstopstopSTOP!" He collided with the front of the truck, smacking his hands on the hood. Its breaks made a noise of protest.

Chest heaving, Dean walked around to the driver's side window.

"Daniel?" he managed to get out between gasps. "The hell are you doing here?"

The boy's chest puffed up and he looked down his nose at Dean. "Investigating my father's murder."

"Yeah?" Dean looked back toward Sam, who was checking the Impala's front bumper for scratches. "Well, this gal," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "'S gonna tell you nothin', and she's not gonna be friendly about telling you nothin', so, why don't you just go back to the hotel."

"Oh, she'll talk alright." Daniel opened the glove compartment so Dean could see the revolver inside.

Dean dropped his forehead onto his arms and groaned, then put a hand through the window. "Kid, gimme that."

"Like hell I will!"

Dean shot another pleading look in Sam's direction. Sam shrugged. Instead of pounding his head against the window ledge like he wanted to, Dean asked, "D'you even know how to shoot that thing?"

"Yes!" the answer was just on the right side of defensive. The kid probably could shoot it, just not well. Dean winced, one eye crinkling shut, and scratched the back of his head.

New approach. "Okay, look, Daniel, we already talked to the girl who lives here. She doesn't know anything, and her little sister just died. Now, I'm sorry about your dad, but I am not gonna let you go harass that poor girl with a gun."

Daniel's determined expression faltered. He looked away from Dean, at his hands, white knuckled, clutching the steering wheel, defenses down just long enough for Dean to lurch over him, snatch the revolver, and stuff it in the back of his jeans.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, I know that was a bit low," Dean adjusted his coat on his shoulders, "But you didn't give me much choice. Now, back this monster truck up – without hitting my baby," he stated that very carefully. "So Sam and I can make sure your butt gets back to the hotel."

"But – "

"No buts, just put in reverse." He pointed in the direction of 'reverse'.

Daniel's faced scrunched up. "I don't have to listen to you!"

As if he hadn't seemed young enough. Dean rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. "Back the truck up _now_, Daniel!" he broke out his best 'I'm a big brother, and dammit you better listen to me' voice. Leaning on the passenger door of the Impala, Sam visibly started.

Daniel cringed and reached for the gear shift.

So instead of going straight from Sparrow's house to Rat's, Sam and Dean made a pit stop at the hotel, waiting there until Bobby arrived to babysit.


	6. VI

**A/N:** For the lovely people who have added this to their story alerts, I'll post this today and another Friday. I do wish you would review though. Love & Hugs!  
_  
Previously: Sam and Dean refuse to let Daniel question Sparrow himself and force him to return the hotel.  
_

**

* * *

The Birds  
**_installment 6_

Sparrow stripped out of her pajamas and took a pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt out of her dresser. She wiggled into the jeans first, then went to her closet to find a belt. When she was clipping her bra closed, her cell phone buzzed on the night stand. She answered it before putting her shirt on.

"Sparrow, one of them's in my house!" Rat hissed on the other line.

"One of whats?" Sparrow balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could pick up her shirt.

"The hunters! He must have followed me here last night! He broke in!" Rat whined.

"What d'you mean, 'followed you last night'?" She paused unfolding her t-shirt.

"I went to Randy's motel," Rat gulped, "He said there were a bunch staying there. I was just trying to screw with them, make it harder to investigate…" His voice was trailing into hysterics, and in the background Sparrow could hear crashing and banging.

"You idiot!" she snarled, taking the phone away from her mouth just long enough to finish dressing. "Change, hide somewhere. I'll deal with it."

"Sparrow?" Rat asked weakly.

"What?" She yanked her shoes on without untying them.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know you are. Just get your ass hidden and don't come out 'till I get there." She shut her cell and stuffed it in her back pocket, grabbed her leather jacket off the hanger by the bedroom door, and checked the inside pocket to make sure her gun was still there. On her way out of the house, she grabbed the knife that was secured under the hall table and strapped it to her thigh.

"Haaron," she shouted. "I'm going to Rat's. Be back later!"

Haaron wasn't so deep into the house that yelling was necessary. He was in the kitchen, just off the entry hall, and watched his sister arm herself. From the window, he saw her speed down the driveway on her motorcycle, which she only drove when she was in a frantic hurry. He picked up the keys to the jeep before heading out the garage door.


	7. VII

_Previously: Rat calls Sparrow in a panic because a hunter has broken into his home.  
_

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 7_

Rat's back door was ajar when Sparrow arrived, the frame damaged from where someone had kicked it in with the bolt done. She toed it open wide enough to step through, both hands on her gun, and scanned foyer. "Hello?" she called into the empty house, knowing Rat wouldn't answer, but hoping to draw the hunters out. She slunk along one wall to the living room, heard the ruckus below her, and when she rounded the corner, saw the basement door busted off its top hinge. "Destructive sons of bitches aren't you?" she muttered, holding the door to the side so she could get down the stairs.

She heard the toppling of a heavy piece of furniture, followed by the shattering of a lamp, and eased down a few more steps, far enough that she could look around the railing and see most of the space. An armoire was lying on its back, and a dresser had a leg snapped off and cavities where drawers should have been. Sparrow lifted onto one foot, craning her body just a little more to see just a little further.

There he was, a big, ugly, bald son of a bitch, grasping the underside of a couch, about to flip it. Sparrow took the rest of the stairs two at a time. She got off one shot before he even turned around, hitting him in the back just below his ribs. The second shot was a through and through his temple. He crumpled to his knees, than collapsed forward, blood pooling around his head, and soaking into the carpet.

"Alright, Rat," she started to holster her gun, "You can come out now. He's dead." She searched the room for the one-eyed furry face, but didn't see him. "Rat? Come on, man. You okay? Gimme something so I can – "

Meaty fingers grabbed the wrist of her gun hand and twisted it behind her back, so Sparrow pulled the trigger. The hold on her immediately released. The hunter fell onto his butt with a howl, clutching at his bleeding foot. "Didn't your mama tell you not to mess with a girl carrying a gun?"

_Bang_. Right between the eyes. Bits of brain and skull spattered onto the upholstery of the couch the first brute had tried to tumble.

"Rat," this time Sparrow held her gun ready, "if there's more than those two, you better give me a sign. And if there's more than three, I'm gonna beat you when this is through because I only brought one extra clip."

A spectacled face poked out a hole in the insulation.

Sparrow put her hands on her hips. "Now, if you could do that, why the hell didn't you just leave the house?"

The ferret weaseled the rest of the way out of the wall, got up on its hide legs, and squeaked, because that was the most it could do.

"You know," Sparrow squatted so as to be closer to eye-level with him, "If it wouldn't kill you, I'd smack you upside the head right now."

Upstairs, someone was pounding on the front door. Then something crashed.

"Shit!" Sparrow swore.


	8. VIII

_Previously: Sparrow kills the two hunters that had broken into Rat's home.  
_

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 8_

"Kid needs to hire a gardener," Dean stated conversationally, ducking under a branch to get to the front stoop. He put his foot on the first step and it went through, snapping the rotted wood clear in two. He looked over his shoulder at Sam, "Carpenter, too."

They tiptoed up the creaking staircase. Dean tried the porch first with his toe before putting his full weight on it. The wood warped under him, and when Sam tried to follow, he held up a hand to stop him. "You join me up here, Sasquatch, we're both gonna fall through. Just hold on there, lemme go first."

Dean rapped once on the door before they heard the gunshots. "Rat!" he shouted, pounding now. "Rat!" He swore, took a step back, and glanced at Sam before kicking the door down. Sam waited just until his brother had crossed the threshold before hopping across the rickety boards.

The place was a wreck, not just in the empty beer cans littered everywhere sense, or the molding pizza on the coffee table sense, or even the 'oh God, did that used to be Chinese?' sense. The stained sofa was tipped over, and covered in slash marks. There were jagged pieces of kitchen chairs in the living room.

"Hello?" Sam called, stepping over the fallen television stand. His feet crunched in the shards of broken screen. "Is anyone here?"

The front door creaked shut. Dean whipped around, grabbing for his gun.

"Just put it down now, Dean." Sparrow shoved Sam to his knees, forced his hands behind his head, and pressed the muzzle of her gun to the back of his skull. Her eyes narrowed when Dean didn't immediately drop his weapon. "Don't doubt that I will." She prodded Sam's head again, making him tip forward and wince.

"Okay, okay!" Without taking his eyes off Sparrow and Sam, he lowered his gun to the coffee table, then raised his hands up above his head.

"On your knees!" she snapped. "And keep your hands where I can see them!"

"What?" Dean tilted his head to one side and scrunched up his face.

"Get on your knees or I swear I'll shoot him!" She shook the gun for emphasis.

"Fine!" Dean dropped to one knee, then the other. "Just… just don't hurt him."

Sam felt the gun against his head tremble. He heard Sparrow swallow. "Sparrow…" he started to try and peer over his shoulder.

"Shut up and hold still," she bit out. "Rat, where the hell are you?"

"Right here." He materialized beside the overturned couch, hands shaking so bad the rope he held appeared to take on a life of its own. "Sparrow… Sparrow, I… I can't…"

"I'm not asking you to kill him, dammit," she snarled, "I'm telling you to tie him up."

Rat nodded. "Yeah, yeah, right, okay." He made his way over broken furniture to Dean and took hold of his wrists.

Dean jerked his hands away. "The hell are you – "

"Hold still! Both of you!" She smacked Sam's temple with the barrel of her gun. Sam groaned.

"Jesus Christ, alright." Dean offered his hands to Rat, who fumbled to bind them.

"Now get lost." She made a shooing gesture with her hand.

Rat gulped, nodded, and turned to go upstairs.

"What're you gonna do?" Dean asked.

"I'm going to kill you both." She focused her stare on the top of Sam's head and pressed her gun into his hair. Sam squinted his eyes shut. "I'm sorry." There was a trace of sincerity in the sarcasm.

"No!" Dean howled and flung himself forward.

"Sparrow!"

Dean did nothing more than face plant onto the carpet, but Sparrow was distracted long enough that Sam could grab her and force the gun from her hands. She thrust her knee into his gut and brought her elbow down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Sam flopped onto his stomach, and Sparrow landed on top of him. She yanked his head up by his hair and held her knife against his throat, tight enough to draw a thin line of blood. She offered an apologetic look to Dean, trying to squirm toward them despite being bound, then checked her blade's placement a final time.

"Sparrow, you're not really going to kill him, are you?"

She didn't release Sam, but her head fell back, and she closed her eyes. "Haaron," she sighed. She'd hoped she'd been imagining his voice. "What are you doing here?"

He was standing at the top of the basement stairs, must have come in the sliding door that was down there. "You left in a hurry… with your gun… I was worried."

"Haaron." Sparrow wouldn't even open her eyes, let alone turn to face her brother. "Go home."

"I… I can't. Sparrow, you're not really going to kill these men. They haven't done anything…"

"Haaron… please, please just leave," Sparrow begged. Sam could feel the knife against his throat quaking, but when he tried to shift under her, she clenched her thighs and tightened her hold on his hair.

"And let you," he choked trying to say it, "Let you kill them. No! I won't!"

"Haaron…"

"They've done nothing to us, Sparrow."

"But they will!"

"None of the others did! You could convince them to leave… you always did," Haaron plead despairingly.

Sparrow gulped. "Haaron, go, please, you don't understand…"

"Doesn't understand what, Sparrow?" Dean gritted his teeth and tried to scoot closer to Sam, "That you've been slaughtering two or three people a year?"

"What?" It was uncertain whether Haaron was addressing Sparrow or Dean.

"Shut up!" Sparrow took her knife away from Sam's throat, only to plunge it through the back of his shoulder.

"Sammy!" Dean howled and doubled his efforts to get to his brother.

Sam's whole body clenched when Sparrow yanked the blade out and replaced it on his neck. "Shut up! You good for nothing _lying_ sonuvabitch, shut up, or _I will kill him_." She shook Sam's head by his hair.

"In front of your little brother?" Dean's voice was raw with exertion. "Who thinks you've been politely asking people to leave for the last seven years?" he laughed dryly and let his head drop onto the carpet, "I don't think so."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Sparrow considered very hard stabbing Sam again.

"Then why don't you enlighten me."

"I don't have to tell you shit. The last two hunters didn't listen, and neither will you."

"We're not like other hunters," Sam got out through his teeth. "Let me up, we'll listen, I swear."

Sparrow shook tousled hair out of her eyes before glaring down at Sam. "What about 'not telling you shit' do you not understand?" She seethed and pulled harder on his head, straining his neck and wounded shoulder.

Haaron winced. "Sparrow, he's right. We should try to talk first."

"Haaron, none of the others – "

"I don't care about the others! He says they're different." He gestured Sam.

"Haaron…"

His eyes narrowed. "I deserve to know what's going on, Sparrow."

Sparrow placed her full weight on her knee, between Sam's shoulder blades before putting her knife in its sheath on her leg. "Fine," she exhaled, then repeated, "fine, we can _try_ and talk to them." Sam tried to get up, but Sparrow pushed harder on his back. "You're crazy," she hissed, "if you think we're having this conversation over tea at the kitchen table. Rat!" she hollered, and Sam flinched because she was still so close to his head. "Rat, geddown here!"

A familiar one-eyed, spectacled face hopped down the stairs. The ferret froze on the second to last step when it saw the crowd in the living room.

"Yeah, I know. No more secrets, and when they prove to be just like Landrick and Rollands," she put her face inappropriately close to Sam's, "I'll kill them, and it won't matter."

"Sparrow!" Haaron snapped.

She ignored him. "Get me another rope," she ordered.

The ferret stood up on its hide legs, entire body trembling. First its arm extended too far from its body, then its legs stretched. Its head shook spasmodically, then its mouth opened, and its nose pushed back into its face. Its black and white fur receded and revealed a maroon t-shirt and denim. After a few more moments of bizarre reshaping of limbs, a very human Rat sat on the stairs where the ferret had been.

"Jesus, that's weird," Dean commented from the floor.

"Shut up."

"It's not our place to judge," Sam grunted, "Sorry about him."

Sparrow smirked. "Cute, but not earning you any brownie points." When Rat handed Sparrow the rope, she bound first his wrists, then used the excess to tie his elbows, further straining his shoulder. Sam groaned.

"Hey, hey, easy!" Dean snarled.

Sparrow spared Dean one glance, before hauling Sam upright and dropping him gracelessly against the nearest wall. "You can prop his brother up next to him," she indicated Rat do it.

Rat hesitated, so Haaron squatted beside Dean to help him up and guide him over to sit beside Sam.

"What do you wanna know?" Sparrow stood over Sam and Dean with one hip cocked and her arms crossed over her chest.

"Let's start with why you've been killing people for seven years." Dean tilted his head up and to one side.

Sparrow looked over her shoulder at Haaron. "You should go home," she tried one last time, "If you really want to know, I'll tell you everything tonight."

"No," Haaron sat on the edge of the miraculously still intact coffee table. "I want to know now."

Sparrow sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "It's been longer than that, actually, but you wouldn't have known to check for missing persons in Nebraska."

"That's not _why_, Sparrow," Dean pressed.

Sparrow picked up her discarded gun and waved it in Dean's face. "You're brother said you'd listen. Now, maybe he was lying, but now that I've decided to talk, you damn well better shut up."

Dean was hardly intimidated by the gun all but touching his nose, and he made it clear by locking his eyes with Sparrow's.

"It started in Nebraska," Sparrow backed away from Dean and continued, "my father killed the pelt collectors as they came," she spoke with a peculiar tone of nostalgia, "and after he and my mother were killed, he passed the responsibility of keeping the family safe onto me." She got in Dean's face again, "I'm sure you can relate."

"You don't really expect me to believe you've been murdering people out of some misguided sense of self-defense," Dean sneered.

"I'm not done with my story," Sparrow narrowed her eyes before continuing, "so, I killed the man who killed my parents and moved my siblings here. Now, it took the pelt collectors a few years to find us again, but when they did, this place sorta started to become a bit of a hotspot. Not a really a surprise, what with me, Haaron, Parakeet, Rat, Randy, and Judy, a lot of pelt collectors came through here, and yes, I killed them all, and as soon as seemingly innocent people start disappearing, hunters start _a_ppearing. If you'd've asked Rat how he lost his eye, he'd've told you a childhood accident, but since we're not keeping secrets here, I'll tell you your buddy Rollands did that. You want misguided? Jacob Rollands thinking he was doing the world a favor by trying to kill all the shapeshifters who live here, that was misguided. And Gregory Landrick, that sonuvabitch killed my sister, and the nail in that bastard's coffin? He was a pelt collector, too."

"What's a pelt collector?" Sam asked, needing to keep Sparrow talking so he could finish sawing through his binds.

"An especially useless breed of hunter that kills shapeshifters, _usually_ entirely separate from you all's variety. Think of them more like rednecks that shoot deer," Sparrow pursed her lips and shrugged one shoulder. "Landrick, though, he that fit in both categories."

"Seriously? You expect me to believe a sub-category of hunter exists that only kills shapeshifters? That all the men you killed were trying to kill you?" Dean asked incredulously.

"What other reason would I have to kill them?"

"I don't know, but in my experience, most the shit we hunt doesn't really need a reason to off people."

"Well, that's too bad, because now I have a reason to off you." She cocked her gun and put the muzzle to Dean's forehead.

"Sparrow, don't."

She didn't move her gun, but she did sigh, tilt her head back, and close her eyes. "Haaron, I told you they wouldn't listen. Now, go home."

"And pretend you're not going to shoot these men? Sparrow, I… I can't. Parakeet and I, if we'd've known you were killing people," Haaron struggled for words, "we'd've helped find some other way – "

"Leave Keet the hell out of this!" Sparrow's voice broke at her sister's name.

"Sparrow, please."

"There is no other way, Haaron, just like Landrick – "

"They're not like Landrick!" Haaron argued, tears starting to well in his eyes. "They haven't hurt anyone! And… and they're people, Sparrow, you've been killing people…"

"To protect you!" she plead.

"I don't want you to protect me like that! Parakeet, she wouldn't have wanted you to either!"

"It's true," Rat added softly from where he stood leaning against the kitchen doorframe. "You scare the shit out of me when you're like this, Sparrow."

The gun on Dean's forehead trembled.

"Please, don't kill them," Haaron begged.

Sparrow replaced her gun in the holster inside her jacket. "You're one lucky son of a bitch, you know that?" She stepped over to Sam and dragged him to his feet by the lapels of his coat. Haaron took a step toward them. "Relax, I'm not going to hurt him. I'm just going to show him what the pelt collectors do to us, why I had every right to kill the men I did."

"You're not taking him anywhere!" Dean launched himself not at Sparrow, but at Haaron. He grabbed the taller man around the neck, and held the short knife he'd used to cut himself free to Haaron's throat.

Sparrow bent Sam back awkwardly to get him in a choke hold and put her gun to his temple.

"Shit, Sammy, why the hell aren't you untied?"

"Knots…" It was a struggle to talk with his neck arched so extremely. "Elbows… couldn't…" he coughed, "Reach."

"Dammit!" Dean shook his knife in Rat's direction, "You, you just… stay the hell there!"

Rat put his hands up and took a step back.

Dean turned back to Sparrow. "Sparrow, I'm gonna make you a deal."

"Who the hell says I wanna make a deal with you?"

Dean made an irritated sound. "Because if you don't I'm gonna slit your brother's throat."

"No you won't." Sparrow's eyes narrowed. "Haaron's not the monster here, I am."

Dean huffed and poked Haaron just hard enough to draw blood. Haaron squirmed and whined. "Now, let's make a deal."

"Fine, start talking."

"Let Sam go. Where ever you were planning on taking him, you can take me."

"Hand over the box cutter and let Rat tie your hands back up, and we have a deal."

Dean tossed the blade onto the coffee table, released Haaron, and offered his hands to Rat.

"Lose the jacket," Sparrow ordered, "Dunno what else you're keeping in those sleeves."

"That wasn't – "

Sparrow nudged the gun touching Sam's head and smirked. Dean stripped off his coat and laid it with more care beside the knife, then replaced his hands behind his back. Rat used an old sweater he found draped over the stair rail to bind him, having run out of ropes.

Sparrow shoved Sam toward Haaron, who caught him by his shoulders before he could topple over. "Keep an eye on that one."

"You said you'd let Sam go," Dean growled.

"And let him follow us?" Sparrow quirked up an eyebrow. "Not a chance." She took Dean by the elbow and on her way past the coffee table, fished through the pockets of his coat for the Impala's keys.

"Oh, hell no!"

"Well, we can't exactly take the motorcycle."

"Heh," Dean shrugged. "We could," he suggested lewdly, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning.

Sparrow back handed him before dragging him out the front door.


	9. IX

A/N: true to my word, loving reviews mean sooner updates. though I don't know if "WTF" is loving, I'm going to assume it means "WTF is going to happen next?", smile, and nod. I really do appreciate the people who take the time just to say "hey, I like what you've written".

_Previously: Dean trades places with Sam when Sparrow tries to haul him away to an undisclosed location to prove she had every right to kill the men she did.  
_

_

* * *

_

**The Birds  
**_Installment 9_

Dean watched the clock on the dash change minute by minute. It'd been half an hour since he'd last asked if he could sit in the passenger seat. Try number four and this time all she'd said was shut up. Two and a half hours since they'd stopped for gas and he'd asked if he could use the restroom. She'd thrown an empty coke bottle into the back seat with him. He'd wanted to know how the hell that was supposed to work with his hands tied, but didn't ask. And three hours since Sparrow had unceremoniously tossed him onto the back seat, slammed the door behind him, and this hellish road trip had begun.

"Hey," he piped up, "how much longer is this little joy ride gonna last?"

Sparrow said nothing.

"At least tell me where we're going?"

"Landrick's place."

"I was hoping for a city, but okay, that's a start." Dean nodded. "How long 'till we get there?"

"Do you have any concept of the phrase 'shut the hell up'?" Sparrow huffed, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Dean smirked, and if Sparrow had checked the rearview mirror, she would have seen that he looked exceptionally pleased with himself. "Nah." She grit her teeth.

Dean waited silently for a full ten minutes, then burst out, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"

The Impala swerved, Dean chuckled, and after the car was back under control, Sparrow pushed a hand through her bangs. "You do that again, so help me God, I will crash this car and leave you to rot on the side of the road."

The fun stopped when his baby was threatened. If he could have, Dean would have put his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright! My bad."

Sparrow heaved a sigh. "Assuming traffic cooperates, we have a little more than two hours to go."

Dean rolled off his side and onto his back. The new position crushed his bound arms, but took his weight off his shoulder which had started to protest being laid on. He supposed he could sit up. They had to be long past places Sparrow was worried he'd be recognized by other hunters.

"If we got another two hours together, we might as well talk." Because Jesus, he was bored.

Sparrow glanced in her side mirror before switching lanes and passing a sedan not going the twenty-five above the speed limit she preferred.

"How 'bout we talk about why you hate hunters so much?"

That particularly stupid question merited a raised eyebrow, but no words.

Dean groaned and squirmed around until he was upright. "Aw come on, you're not really gonna give me the silent treatment the whole way there?"

The corners of Sparrow's mouth turned up, and Dean had to hop a little in his seat to see her expression in the rear view mirror. She nodded.

"Bitch!" he exclaimed, albeit half-heartedly. Having answered similar questions from Sam in similar fashions, he recognized the tiny bit of humor. Sparrow shrugged to irritate him further, and Dean slumped in his seat, trying to come up with something else to entertain himself.

"Hey," he tried some thirty minutes later.

Sparrow made no attempt to acknowledge him.

Dean breathed out harshly through his nose and frowned before continuing. "You know, you 'n me, were not all that different, I guess, both got younger siblings we're watchin' out for. I mean, I'm not sure that excuses you killing people, especially since I'm not sure I _believe_ that's why you're killing people – "

"And this is why I wanted to bring the other brother." Sparrow resisted the urge to bang her head on the steering wheel only because looking away from the winding roads would undoubtedly result in a collision with a tree. "Would you please just sit back there and be quiet?!"

"No!"

"Well, why the hell not?"

"One, because you kidnapped me, so I don't much feel I have to be cooperative. Two, I'm bored out of my _freakin_' mind, and I can't stand silence."

Sparrow jabbed the radio power button with one finger, then fidgeted with the dial, and when Dean tried again to speak, she turned up the volume.

Dean could only stand to let four songs play before he scooched to the edge of the bench seat and leaned forward over the center console. Sparrow looked away from the road just for a second to see what he was doing. "What the hell are you doing?" she gave up and yelled over the music.

"Changing the station!" he shouted back.

"The hell do you think you're going to do that?"

Dean didn't say anything, just clicked his teeth once.

Sparrow snorted. "Good luck with that."

She dealt with Dean's antics until he bumped her elbow with enough force that it moved the steering wheel, then with one hand on the top of his head she forced him back onto his seat. Unfortunately, he didn't give up, and lurched forward into the front of the car again. Before he got very far, though, Sparrow shut the radio off.

"Jesus Christ, knock it off!" she snarled. "Are you trying to cause an accident?"

Dean didn't say anything, embarrassed that he'd put the Impala in danger for a second time in one trip.

"I thought you hated silence!"

Dean laughed once. "Silence beats the hell outta your punk rock crap. Has anyone ever told you you have _lousy_ taste in music?"

Of all the reactions he expected, Sparrow jerking the steering wheel to one side and pulling onto the side of the road so suddenly that gravel pinged against the undercarriage wasn't even on the list. The gear shift was slammed to park, the emergency break ignored, and when Sparrow got out of the car, she flung the door closed behind her with such force that the entire frame shook. She opened Dean's door with equal vigor, grabbed him by his ankle, and hauled him onto the ground. When she landed atop him, she had her knife out. It glinted dangerously in the little remaining daylight.

Dean chucked nervously. "Little bit touchy about the Green Day addiction, I get it, my bad."

"If you had any idea the things I wanted to do to you right now, you would not be cracking jokes," she growled.

Dean didn't even wince. He opened his mouth…

"Whatever wise ass answer you have for that, you better keep it to yourself." She leaned down close to his face and dragged the knife over the bridge of his nose, not to draw blood, just so he could feel the cool metal. "Now, we're gonna make another deal, right here, right now," she hissed.

Dean didn't nod or make any move of agreement, but she continued anyway.

"You're going to promise not to make a sound the rest of the way to Landrick's place, and in exchange…" She kept toying with that knife in a way that made Dean squirm uncomfortably.

"In exchange, what?" he bit out.

"I won't slit your throat," she sat back, intently studying a tree branch for a moment, "or castrate you."

Dean swallowed.

"So," she asked, "We have a deal?"

Dean turned his head away, "Yeah, sure, whatever."


	10. X

A/N: for the lovely people who added this to their favorites, again I post early. and forgive me if I self advertise a little, but I have one other Supernatural piece, _The Silver Bullet Murders_ that I would simply adore if you checked out

_Previously: On their way to Landrick's home, Sparrow threatens to kill Dean if he doesn't shut up.  
_

_

* * *

_

**The Birds  
**_Installment 10_

"I wonder if she's threatened to kill him yet," Haaron mused aloud, snipping the twine he was using to stitch up Sam's shoulder with a pair of scissors.

"You mean 'if she's killed him'," Rat corrected handing Haaron a square of gauze and the roll of medical tape.

Haaron shot Rat a dirty look. "She won't kill him," he assured Sam, patting his uninjured shoulder, and handing him his button down, the least blood stained of his shirts.

Rat snorted. "Only because she doesn't have anyone to eat the bodies out there."

"Rat!" Haaron snapped, glaring now at the other shapeshifter.

"No," Sam said quietly, "He's right, how likely is it that my brother doesn't come back?"

Haaron's glare at Rat intensified. "He'll come back alive, Sam."

"Forgive me for being skeptical, but your sister's killed more than fourteen people."

Haaron sighed. "And she won't kill your brother," he reiterated, "he just reminds Sparrow of someone she remembers with… mixed feelings. That's all Rat's talking about."

Rat rolled his eyes and snorted again.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked over his shoulder, "Like an ex?"

Haaron laughed dryly. "Precisely. Wren was his name."

"Another shapeshifter?"

"No, just an ironic name. Some distant Cherokee heritage, or so he claimed. He and Sparrow were together for…" Haaron chewed the inside of his cheek, counting years.

"Three years," Rat finished for him. "And then the sonuvabitch left her when she showed him what she was. Mr. I'm-so-tough-don't-take-shit-from-anyone freaked the fuck out when he found out she was a shapeshifter." He walked around to stand in front of Sam. "The useless asshole was exactly like your cocksure, swaggering brother."

Sam winced.

Haaron patted his shoulder again. "I'm sure you're brother has more redeeming qualities than Wren ever had." He stood. "I don't know what all Rat keeps in that kitchen of his, but I'm sure I could scrounge something up. Are you hungry, Sam?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm alright."

"I'll make enough for three anyway."

Rat gave Sam a nasty look before following Haaron into the kitchen. Sam could hear him talking to Haaron in less than hushed tones, "You know we don't have to be nice to him." Sam studied the front door, closed in as much as it could be with a busted hinge, and considered leaving, but he didn't know where Sparrow was taking his brother, and he could bet the girl had already tossed his cell phone out a window, onto the side of the road.

"Hey, Haaron," he supposed it couldn't hurt to ask, "Where's Sparrow taking Dean?"

Haaron poked his head out of the kitchen, "If I knew that, I'd've already suggested we follow them."

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Oh."

"I'm sorry."

Haaron returned to the destroyed living room balancing three plates, each with a sandwich. He set them on the coffee table before dropping into a cross-legged position on the floor. "It's just tuna from a can with a little mayonnaise. It's all I trusted from the cupboards. Rat needs a woman," he grinned at the glowering boy perched on the overturned couch, "Or his house is going to mold until it collapses."

Rat crossed his arms and looked out the window.

Sam wasn't sure what to say. His head was struggling to wrap itself around just how human Haaron and Rat were. He felt an immeasurable amount of guilt thinking of how close he'd come to lumping them in with vampires and witches and other things that bump in the night. Gingerly, he reached to pick up the offered sandwich. Even the more violent than necessary Sparrow wasn't so hard to understand. She had two baby siblings to protect, and she'd kept them safe all these years without ever exposing them to the deadly required means. It was more than he could say for his father or brother. His own gentleness was perpetually on the verge of being squashed. He imagined Parakeet in life had been as amiable in nature as her brother was now.

"Does it taste alright?" Haaron asked. "I was a little worried the mayonnaise might be outdated."

Sam swallowed then smiled. "Tastes great, thanks."

"That's good."

"Haaron," he began after finishing his sandwich, "Can I ask a question?"

"You can probably ask a few," Haaron's gold eyes twinkled, "It seems we have plenty of time." He picked up Sam's empty plate and set it atop his own. Rat was still sulking on the toppled couch, plate in his lap, so Haaron left his be.

"How did you, uhm…" Sam couldn't quite think of how to say it, "Get like this?" He closed one eye and grimaced. "I mean, become shapeshifters?"

Haaron spared another glance at Rat. "It's simple genetics really. I don't know the specifics, but both my parents were shapeshifters, so it was pretty much a given all their children would be."

"Really?" Sam watched Haaron take their plates to the kitchen and put them in the sink.

"Mhmm. Dad was an eagle, which explains, I guess, why we had such a problem with pelt collectors…" He frowned and shook his head.

"You didn't know your father was killing pelt collectors, did you?"

"Not at all. I was aware we had many unwelcome visitors when I was little and that Dad chased them away. Rather naïve of me, I've decided, given how often Dad was injured. Sparrow, too, perpetually coming home with gashes and slashes and bullet wounds. I absolutely should have known – "

"And your mother, what was she?" Sam saved him from delving further.

"A mourning dove." When Sam arched a confused eyebrow, Haaron elaborated, "You know those pudgy gray birds that bob their heads and sound something like a cross between a cat and an owl?"

"Right, mhmm."

"Says a lot about my mother, her second shape," Haaron said with nostalgia and a warm smile.

"So, it's just sort of a general shapeshifting gene that gets passed down, not a specific species gene." Sam made careful mental note of each detail to be recorded the blank pages at the back of his father's journal.

Haaron nodded his head from side to side. "More or less. They tend to stay in the same family of animals. Rat, your mother was an otter, right?"

Rat nodded.

"There are theories as to where we originated from; each Native American tribe has their own shapeshifter legends, and it's supposed we were born of those figures." He put the tip of his first finger to his chin. "On Dad's side, Lakota Sioux, there's Iktomi, a spider, and Coyote. Mom is very very distantly Lenape, and they have Moskim, a rabbit. Rat, what about your mother?"

Rat shrugged. Haaron sighed, and turned his attention back to Sam. "And that's probably much more than you wanted to know."

"No, no, it's great. I just wish I had something to write it all down on."

"Don't even ask, Haaron. Find it yourself," Rat grumbled.

Haaron stood and left the room, presumably to find a pen and paper.

Sam's cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Bobby.

"Sam, I just got off the phone with Daniel Landrick…" he sounded panicked.

Rat and Haaron sat silently through the hurried conversation.


	11. XI

_Previously: Haaron explains the origins of shapeshifting. Sam gets a panicked call from Bobby about Daniel Landrick.  
_

_

* * *

_

**The Birds  
**_installment 11_

Daniel Landrick sat in his father's truck, at the foot of his own tree lined driveway with a caravan of four cars behind him. "Bobby," he whispered into his cell phone, "I know who killed my father. And she's got Dean Winchester. I followed her to my house, Bobby, and I don't know what she's doing here, but I just wanted to let you know where I am…" Daniel gulped, "in case I don't come back to the hotel tomorrow."

He hung up before Bobby could say anything, set his phone on the dashboard, and picked the sawed off shot gun up from the passenger seat. He tucked a few extra shells in his pocket before swallowing hard and opening his door. Behind him, he could hear the opening and closing of doors and trunks as the other hunters readied themselves for an ambush. Daniel waited for most of the commotion to cease before asking, "Everyone ready?"

His five man army answered with grunts and nods.

"Then let's get this bitch." He waved them up the driveway.

The Impala was parked on the lawn. The front door was ajar. Daniel tiptoed up to it first, then with the muzzle of his gun, nudged it open just enough that he could peek in. The foyer and kitchen just off the entry hall were empty. Their furniture undisturbed. He shouldered the door the rest of the way open and crossed the threshold. He turned to the two men behind him.

"Check upstairs," he hissed and tossed a hand in the direction of the stair case. "And you two," he leaned around to see the next pair, "check the basement. Me 'nd Patrick will take the main floor. And let me make this very clear," Daniel struggled to keep the tremble out of his voice, "you find her, you keep her alive. No one, _no one_, but me gets to make this kill shot." He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, trying his damnest to look intimidating.

His men nodded. They were all close enough to the father to obey the orders of the grieving son, and so they split, each searching their designated level of the eerily silent house.

"He must already be dead," Daniel whispered to Patrick, a boy not much older than himself whose father was upstairs scouring bedrooms. "Or he'd've heard us and be shouting for help." Daniel shook his head and cursed. "I knew I should have done something when she stopped earlier…"

Patrick couldn't muster up the bravery to offer an encouraging word. The gun he clutched with both hands shook with such force that he had to put the safety back on it; he was scared he might shoot his own foot. Around them, all the living room furniture had been tipped over, including a seven foot china cabinet, and the carpeting slashed.

The door to Daniel's father's study bore signs of being kicked in. It was a room that Daniel never been allowed in. Anything about hunting his father had wanted to show him had been brought out and displayed on the kitchen table. Daniel lead with his shot gun, hesitantly pushing the door open wide enough to walk through.

"D… Daniel…" Patrick stammered, "the… the hell is that?" He pointed above the desk.

Daniel bit back a scream. The thing mounted to the wall had a frighteningly human looking face, mouth open bearing several rows of jagged teeth. He inched up to it, not at all certain it wouldn't snap at him if he got too close. The nose was strangely squat and pointed. Its hair and ears seemed to recede, and the skin had taken on a gray blue hue.

"What is it?" Patrick repeated. He had yet to make his own way into the room.

"I don't know." A little more confident it wouldn't bite him, Daniel studied the severed head more intently. "Must be a monster we've never heard of. Hunting trophy type deal."

"Whatever, man, let's just get the hell outta here, check a different room. It gives me the creeps whatever it is."

Daniel shrugged and started to back out of the room. His heel caught on something. He stumbled and almost fell.

Patrick yelped.

Daniel caught himself on the corner of the desk, then squatted down to touch the hazardous bump in the carpet. It was cylindrical under his fingers, and he flipped back the rug's corner to better inspect it. It was a hinge, and rolling back more carpeting revealed its partner. Daniel yanked the entire rug up and tossed it aside.

A three foot by three foot door was in the middle of the floor of his father's study. Daniel hooked his foot through the handle and lifted it open. Years of reading too many novels and watching horror movies made him expect stone stairs decorated with cobwebs, lit by torches on the walls, but instead there were wooden steps much like those leading to the cellar lit by fluorescent lights. Not only was the passage spider web free, but the walls were painted a crisp shade of white.

Daniel motioned Patrick to follow him down. They had to duck because the ceiling was low.

They were just a few steps from the bottom, when Daniel saw her. His eyes got wide. Dean wasn't dead; he was standing beside her, unwinding a sweater from his wrists. Daniel lifted his shot gun. "Dean!" he shouted, "Get out of the way!"

He took aim.

* * *

A/N: I know this is a mean end to a chapter. Only two installments left! (totally accidental it came out to thirteen)


	12. XII

A/N: I've decided to post the last two installments on Wednesdays because I was tired of being swamped off the top couple pages by rewrites and reflections on and deleted scenes from Thursday night's new episode. I hope no one is terribly offended by my saying this, but those kinds of pieces drive me batshit crazy.  
_  
Previously: Searching his house with a five man army, Daniel finds Dean and Sparrow in a secret passage beneath his father's study._

* * *

**The Birds  
**_installment 12_

Dean struggled both to keep up with Sparrow and stay out of her way, activities which would have been difficult even had his hands not been tied behind his back. Sparrow raced down the basement stairs. Dean hobbled after. Sparrow lifted, toppled, and shoved furniture. Dean hopped out of the way. Sparrow ripped up carpeting. Dean scrambled to be off those carpets before he joined the broken furniture on the floor.

"The hell are you looking for?" he asked, just jumping out of the way of Sparrow's foot, kicking through a wall to the insulation behind.

"Dammit!" she hollered. "They always have a stash, and it's always in the basement!"

Dean risked getting close enough to her to ask without yelling, "A stash of what?"

"Oh, you'll see," she growled, turning on her heel and heading back up the stairs. Dean heaved a sigh and followed after her.

"What if he doesn't have 'a stash'?" Dean shouted, taking the steps much slower than Sparrow. He winced hearing something large shatter. "What if you're destroying the house of a perfectly normal, decent man?" Across the way, he saw the kitchen. Kitchen's had knives…

Sparrow rounded the corner, grabbed Dean by his shoulder, and hauled him into the living room. "Gregory Landrick was not 'normal' and he certainly wasn't decent," she snarled. She'd made short work of the china cabinet, bookshelf, couch, and rugs. "By the way," she hissed in Dean's ear, "I found it." She cocked her head toward a closed door.

"How do you know – "

She kicked in the door before he could finish.

Dean saw the trophy mounted on the wall above the desk. His stomach clenched, and he glanced at Sparrow, whose taught angry expression had relaxed into something solemn. He'd been on the verge of asking something snarky about wrecking all the furniture in here, too, but couldn't bring himself to. "Is that…?"

Sparrow chewed her bottom lip and nodded. "Shark, I think." She dropped onto her hands and knees, rapping the floor with her knuckles until she found a hollow spot. "I knew he had to have one," she said more to herself than Dean, reaching under the carpet for the door handle and pulling it and the carpet back, revealing a brightly lit staircase. "You first."

There had to be more than twenty. Gregory Landrick's 'stash' consisted of more than twenty taxidermy shapeshifters, all in various states of changing.

Dean attributed many adjectives to Sparrow, but none of them applied to the woman standing on the steps, clutching the rail in a white knuckled grip, throat so constricted he could see the tendons. Her bottom lip trembled until she bit it. Her eyes, always intense, were glazed. She made her way on knees so wobbly Dean thought she would fall the rest of the way down the stairs.

"Sparrow…"

"Shut up." It was half-hearted and her voice was raw. She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped up to a woman with a fanning peacock's tail and the beginnings of gold scales and claws forming on her fingers. Sparrow swallowed, desperately clinging to composure, before speaking again, "In the throes of death, we change, or try to. It's slow… and futile, like armadillos instinctively jumping up when cars go over top of them, but we do. The longer it takes to die, the more change takes place." She locked her teary gaze with Dean's. "It must have taken a near hour for her to die," Sparrow explained of the peacock woman, "and that much of her tail to grow."

Dean was silent for a moment. "I… uhm, I'm sorry."

Sparrow shrugged one shoulder, and Dean wished hard that Sammy was there, because sorry wasn't good enough at all, but Dean lacked the words to adequately express as much.

Sparrow walked around behind him, took hold of his bound wrists, and proceeded to saw through the cotton sleeves. When his hands were free, she pressed the keys to the Impala into his palm.

"Assuming you're not going to try and kill me, you're free to go. If you do try and kill me, I'll shoot you." She walked past him to touch a man's orange and black striped cheek. Dean followed her, and in a risky move, placed a hand on Sparrow's shoulder.

"You don't have to stay here," he offered, "I'll take you home."

"I have to give them proper burials," Sparrow squatted in front of a little girl with a forked pink tongue and bright orange eyes. She laced her fingers with one scaly green hand. "Go back to your brother. Tell Haaron I'll be home by tomorrow evening."

"Sparrow…"

"I don't want your pity," she bit out, standing up. "Your understanding's good enough." When Dean didn't move, she reiterated, "Go, Dean."

"No," Dean decided. "Lemme borrow your phone. I'll call Sam, let him know what's going on. I'll help you here. We'll both go home tomorrow." He waited for Sparrow to whip out her gun and force him out of the Landrick house at its point, but she didn't.

"Do what you want," she answered, tiredly.

"Dean!" someone shouted. "Get out of the way!"

Daniel was on the stairs, gun ready. Dean moved to grab Sparrow. "Daniel, don't!"

He'd barely gotten the words out when the shot went off. Sparrow made a choked noise and stumbled back into him. Dean caught her shoulders, but her knees buckled, so he wrapped an arm around her waist. His sleeve immediately became saturated with the warm wetness of blood. "No," he growled, "No… no…" He dropped to the floor, cradling Sparrow against his chest.

She opened her mouth to speak, but only blood burbled out. "Oh God," Dean gasped. He tried to apply pressure to her stomach, but the bleeding just wouldn't stop. The nails of the fingers clawing at his forearm started to elongate into sharp points. Tiny bronze scales broke out over the knuckles. Dean's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No… stop it," he begged, as though that would stop the feathers sprouting from Sparrow's temples and weaving into her hair. "You're not dying," he grit out, "so stop that!"

He'd never seen Sparrow look truly frightened, but he could think of no other way to describe the look on her face just before her eyes clouded over and the hands holding his arm went limp.

Tunnel vision cleared, Daniel saw the posed forms lining the walls. The shotgun rolled from his fingers and clattered down the steps. He almost tumbled after it, but caught himself on the rail, a wave of nausea rocking his entire frame. "Are those… were those… oh God… people?"

Dean couldn't answer.

At the top of the stairs, Patrick vomited.


	13. XIII

_Previously: Dean realizes the monster Greg Landrick was. Sparrow is shot and killed._

_

* * *

_

**The Birds  
**_installment 13_

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Haaron pulled to the top of the Landrick's driveway, parking the jeep behind the Impala. Bobby pulled his truck up beside him. There were five men milling about on the front lawn, all looking dazed and confused and uncertain. Daniel Landrick was sitting on the stoop steps, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. When Bobby tilted his chin up, he blinked bewildered swollen red eyes at him. "I didn't know…" he rasped, "I didn't…" He couldn't finish. The words dissolved into incoherent sobs and mumbled apologies.

"Daniel," Bobby started gently, "Where's Dean?"

"The room…" Daniel sniffled, "the room under my dad's study." He turned pleading eyes on Bobby. "With the girl… I didn't mean to kill her, Bobby… I just… I didn't know…" He hiccupped and began to cry anew.

Behind him, Sam heard Haaron's breath hitch. He pushed past Sam, made his way up the stairs and into the house, following the trail of ruined carpets to the office door. The hatch to the secret passage was open. Haaron steeled himself before starting down the wooden steps.

Dean leaned against the far wall, Sparrow draped lifelessly across his lap, cradled in his arms. When he looked up and saw Haaron, a solitary tear dripped from one bloodshot eye. "I'm sorry," he whispered, so hoarse it was almost inaudible. "I know sorry's not good enough," he clenched his teeth and shook his head, clearly angry with himself, "But it's all…"

Haaron knelt in front of him, sighed, and caressed Sparrow's feathered cheek. "It's not your fault."

Dean gnawed at his bottom lip.

"Haaron?" Rat's hesitant voice echoed from the top of the stairs. "Is she…" he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Yes," Haaron choked back a sob, "Yes, Rat, she is."

Dean expected snarling and swearing and threats to Daniel's life, but there was only stunned silence, and then the uneven pattering of feet on wood steps. Rat peered over Haaron's shoulder, lips parted to allow shallow breaths to pass through, eyebrows knotted above the scrunched bridge of his nose. "I want so bad to blame that kid…"

"I know," Haaron leaned in and wrapped his arms around his sister's neck, undeterred by the blood that soaked into his clothing. He pressed his nose to her cheek. "I want so bad to assign fault as well," he gasped, "but I can't help but feel the blame goes in circles."

Dean let his head fall against the wall with a painful thunk and closed his eyes.

vWv

Sam and Dean stayed in Bainbridge Island just long enough to wash the sweat and grave dirt from their bodies. Hair still damp from the shower, Dean volunteered to take the first leg of the drive even though he'd just driven the six hours back from Sandpoint. Muscles still aching from burying the dead, Sam was more than willing to let him.

They'd been on the road hardly ten minutes, and Sam was already dozing, when Dean punched his shoulder. "Sammy, wake up!"

"What?" Sam groaned, feeling the car start to slow. Dean pointed out the front windshield.

Sitting on the side of the road was the most bizarre farewell party the Winchesters had ever seen. A black footed ferret, a great white heron, an alligator, and a mountain lion all watched the Impala glide past.

* * *

**A/N:** And that's it, folks, all done and over. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. No really, no matter how many times I wanted to feed it to my paper shredder, I am quite pleased with the final product. Love and hugs!


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